


The Red Knight Rides

by LilyJean2013



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Acceptance of who he is, Angst and Tragedy, Argosax - Freeform, Bottom Dante (Devil May Cry), Character Death, Children, Dante x Lady, Dark Dante (Devil May Cry), Demon Deals, Demon Sex, Demon world, Devil May Cry (Game), Devil May Cry 3 (Game), Devil May Cry 4 (Game), Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Fate & Destiny, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Five Stages of Grief, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Lady x Dante, Mentioned Lady (Devil May Cry), Monsters, Pain, Parent Dante (Devil May Cry), Post-Devil May Cry 4, Pre-Devil May Cry 2, Pregnancy, Sad and Sweet, Sex, Siblings, Sparda - Freeform, Top Dante (Devil May Cry), heritage, human world - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27912727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyJean2013/pseuds/LilyJean2013
Summary: Dante had become what he feared the most, by the cruel chains of fate. Vergil was correct, he could never escape from this. Pre DMC2. Dante/Lady
Relationships: Dante & Lady (Devil May Cry), Dante & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Dante/Lady (Devil May Cry)
Kudos: 6





	The Red Knight Rides

A man drove his motorcycle through the sunset time, winding streets of the late summer moon swelling in the warm clear night sky overhead. The motor roared down the asphalt road clear.

The black avenue only appeared darker when bathed in the glow of the satellite in the sky.

His red trench coat waved behind him in the wind, stylish irrespective of the weather. A black shirt fill him out beneath the jacket and grey slacks laid lazily hooked to his legs with a black leather leg pack on his right thigh. Dark boots fitted his feet, their design being laced together and his hands gripped the steer intently, covered in fingerless coal-colored gloves as he twisted the right handle and sped the metal onward to greener pastures. On his back hung an oversized silver broadsword, the screaming skull of his father's loving memory resting above a rib cage int the design of its hilt. The blade matched the color of his hair, stainlessly silver and platinum sheen'd, shining ever darkly, waving cooly in the soft wind.

He smirked at the sight of his destination, a gloomy city of old tail and rum.

Although it was relatively early, the streets were deserted, a curfew still in effect over some 'recent events.' The man still remembered that hellish night, everyone, without exception, were to remain indoors after dusk, till the streets were clean. He had to send them back to hell, where 'they' belong, to be broken by thy master. It had been a tense and quiet winter in the city ever since, at least on the surface.

The man glided past silent houses. There was a faint glow of television sets spilling out across well-kept lawns, the distant drone of crickets and an occasional barking dog the only things making sounds.

Paranoid citizens dwelled behind those locked doors, waiting for the announcement that all had been purged, that they could live normally like things used to be.

This sight brought bad memories, of Temen-ni-gru, apocalypse day. The ever-cold Vergil raised the dark tower, as siblings were wont to do, and to the structure, Childe Dante came. But the danger this time was not as horrible. For now, it had been taken care of. The sky's stygian blue wisp loomed far above, the man's isolation growing. For just a moment, the redcoat'd slayer envied the citizens of their ignorance. They could return home to their loved ones and rest within each other's company, the company he broadly seemed to lack most of these days. He acknowledged the truth at the very least, he could never have that no matter how hard he fought. Twas the price, as it were, for power beyond the mortal rite, the price to play the same old game.

Sparda's price, he supposed.

He'd come to a rather disheartening conclusion in the last couple of weeks. Knowing the truth wasn't all it was. Not quite the notion he'd wanted as a boy.

To set people free, to truly help them deal with the consequences at hand, he often felt himself unable to escape with them. It was either him or them, no in between. Between the two, he knew what he always had to choose, no exceptions. Couldn't find it in his heart to accept it. Just kept the fear, drifting and drifting to the sole exertion, growing further and further away from those around him, the fear of being alone settling like thick clots in his chest.

Dante certainly did not enjoy how much Demons worked at their attempts to obliterate humanity.

The idea served a boring purpose, one played out and cliche almost.

It had been a long, nightmarish few days since Dante returned from his second visit to Fortuna.

He had to go there to discover what had become of Yamato of course. Nero, a young boy with an unusual arm, he had the power of Sparda. Dante knew immediately, just as soon as he'd met the kid, where exactly he'd come from. His lost brother's 'product' of an ugly, vile affair with a local country girl, someone whom he'd swindled no doubt, and perhaps she'd stolen something from him as well. Nero did remind him of his older brother, albeit, before he'd gone mad with power. Sadly there wasn't much for him to ruminate further on it. He desired to look for the woman who birthed the boy someday, though it wasn't likely he'd be able to find much of her by now. Either she died, or ran away. Given away her responsibility as a mother.

Nero had escaped the savior's death at Sanctus's hands, only to run up against the leftovers. Kyrie, the young singer: he knew they grew up together with the man called Credo.

Poor fellow died in his arms, it was a saddening moment he couldn't quite forget. After her theft, Kyrie grew into more than what she used to be. She found a strength in herself that proved greater than any religious fealty she ever could've found in that disOrder. That was something he could never teach a person like Patty, not that it was the girl's fault of course, she was a material girl at heart; oh how often he'd dread her visits. No doubt she'd drown him under lakes of praise and date proposals if she could.

So many yarns, so little time.

There was a lot of work to do after the Order had imploded on itself.

Dante shrugged as he looked up to see his neon sign over the front doorway. 'Devil May Cry.' He put the motorcycle to a halt and placed it on the side next to the stairs.

He stood in silence, just watching the double door.

He imagined the next scenario, what it might feel like to step inside. He really, really, really didn't want to deal with it.

And yet, like clockwork, he knew what was about to come next.

. . .

**"Why're you late, you Pizza-Freak?" A feminine voice yelled at him with that tone he always 'loved.'**

**He replied with an attitude, smirking, "Had a dead party this last job. Am I not allowed for some lively-work that actually pays well?"**

**She sniggered in kind, with these red and blue eyes. Holding her pregnant belly for a long while now, she'd gone insane with her mood swings and savage temper. He might've resented that shit but she kept herself measured and never once complained about that seed he'd planted. With such gentleness, he wrapped his arms around her. There wasn't another thing like it, the sense of his baby kicking and living, and he couldn't wait to meet him or her, it didn't matter.**

**"What, no smart-ass reply?"**

**"I don't feel like it," she whispered, tugging at his mid.**

**She was a bit too cranky today, she needed a hug.**

**'I'll never understand this woman,' he thought to himself, shaking his head slowly.**

. . .

Dante touched the cold handle and opened the door, careful not to make a sound. He wanted to go to his room peacefully and out of her sight if she was still around waiting for him. The vacant space was as it always was: he mostly kept the furniture for posterity's sake and disliked the smell of proper things, preferring just a few shelfs and a jukebox, though he did miss his old pool table. The office overall had always been a rather bland spacious room, used most often for hanging grim trophies, though she'd made him get rid of such things when the baby came along. Now, it truly was lacking in most every area and the pinnacle of his tasteless anger haunted him alone in that gentle room's nighttime hues.

It could be understated that the decor was of a style which lacked style.

For Dante, money spent on furniture meant less money for food and genuine necessities for hygiene. He and Lady had planned to buy a new home once upon a time; probably sell this place. And yet, the very moment his boot touched the flooring inside, someone jumped in his arms and almost caused him to lose his balance.

"Dante! Welcome back!"

A short girl around the age of 15, with blonde hair, stood before him. Her mane was a classically feathered, perfectly coifed to a form of the graduation cut. She had rather annoying puffy cheeks as she looked up to Dante insistent. Same old trip it was back then he supposed.

"Patty, why are you still here? Ya have school tomorrow," Dante said as he moved her back from him.

Patty's eye's dropped to the ground, she bit her lips nervously and spoke.

"I'm so sorry. This is all my fault, I want to help you find closure . . ."

Dante glared at her and heaved a long sigh.

"Ah, relax kid, it ain't your fault. Theo's alive," he knelt down to her level and touched her chin. "We'll find him, and you two can play here like old times. It's gonna be okay."

Patty's lips formed half a smile. Still, this wouldn't cover the pain of guilt she felt, "Yeah, I'll do my best to help. They would've wanted me around."

Dante grimaced to himself the moment Patty looked away from him.

"Go to bed now, goodnight," he whispered and gestured at the door behind his desk.

She plodded off, bummed and tired.

He nodded to her when she turned back to him. He'd never allow her to leave this place alone, most especially at nighttime; simply not safe.

"Goodnight, kid," he said dreary. He put his hands in his pockets before he strolled out of the office and into the hall. The light was scarce but not too terribly dim. He opened the door to his old bedroom, old toys scattered on the ground, and he didn't find it in his heart to clean them up. Felt too much like he was giving up that child by him. Leaving them like this, as though untouched by time, it brought pleasant memories he'd like to hold onto.

A grey crib was placed to the left of the king-sized bed, right beside the side where Lady used to sleep. He heaved a deep sigh and rubbed his forehead, dragging fingers over his eyes as hairs fell out of his head. Thinking perhaps a beer would make him forget. Deja vu hurt him too much. The soothing blue light of his ceiling fixtures bathed him in baby blue. His son was gone. He could be alone out there in the dark, terrified. Children were small and vulnerable, much too weak to defend themselves against the kind of beasts that stalked him. He could scarcely recall the features anymore, not unless he saw the old pictures again, all the photos of himself with his love and the boy who'd won his heart. Just like him, when he was left inside that desolate closet, terrified and waiting for his mother to return.

Robbed of child, robbed of purpose.

Why did he have to fail that time? Where had the boy gone? Was he even alive? Oh god, he thought, trying to imagine all the possibilities about it made it worse.

Was he just like his old man Sparda? Left unable to raise his own flesh and blood by the chains of fate. And a terrible husband. Himself beaten by a mere shift.

He took his coat off and threw himself on the bed.

His heavy eyes caught the picture on the nightstand, a woman with dark, chin-length hair on both sides of her face and a fringe that reached her eyes over her forehead. Those heterochromatic eyes haunted him. She wore a casual green jacket with a white frill dress underneath. He couldn't remember the occasion that had sparked her to wear it. He stared at the photo, taking it in his hands, and lightly laughed at a passing memory that soon left him. The smile vanished. He gazed at the empty side of the bed and scowled. He set it back down when there was a noticeable creek of the front door.

* * *

The front door of the office opened. Inward stepped a brown-haired man with a suitcase. He looked amicable enough, Patty thought.

"Hello, welcome?" Patty greeted him, returning from the back room with a coffee mug and sleepy eyes, shining the best smile she had the strength to show.

"Oh! Thank you," he replied. "Is Dante here?"

Patty nodded and signaled him to sit down at the couch, "I'll make you some tea, please take a seat."

The man took a chair on the single sofa and placed the suitcase upon the dusty-looking desk.

"I really need his help, I have a job that requires his skill," he said with a concerned tone. The case latches popped up and the man took out a gloomy-looking picture of dusk, with strange creatures caught in movement. The area in the photo resembled a forest, or at the very least a small village; too dark to know. In the photo, the creatures were shaped humanoid but horrifying, twisted incarnations of flesh that only half-way resembled a broken anthropological form— the faces of monsters thought only in nightmares of the subconscious— and the girl tried not to stare at them.

Patty let the water boil and stood in front of the door leading to his room, "Dante, you have a customer."

After a moment of silence, she heard him say, "I hear ya, I'm comin'."

* * *

Dante froze in front of the door, hand clutched around the handle. A moment of discomposure had greeted him and stomped down on his emotional urges, banishing them away— twas never his style to make his troubles known at the surface. His body nearly crumbled but he stitched himself together. Time to strut again.

At last, he hurried through the door.

"Well well," Dante jeered. "A suit here to see me? Hope the tax man's got good news this time."

Lazily he sat down on his chair with his arms behind his back.

His eyes gazed at the pictures left for him at the desk.

"What's this," Dante whispered. He stared at them, brackish. "You got a rodent infestation?"

"My name's Mark, thanks for asking," the young man replied sharply. "Roughly speaking, yes. There've been some . . . unpleasant developments. The locals told me it used to be a spiritual ground where civil rituals were done in the old days. About five years ago, they stopped when weird things started happening."

He leaned forward and popped open his briefcase. Inside were dozens of photos, none of which were from digital formats. Dante took a mental note of that as Mark continued to make his case. Half the demons in these photos were already familiar to Dante, now that he got a better look at them. It was strange how they often kept repeating themselves. Just couldn't seem to lose those old creeps.

"It coulda been a ritual went bad. Ya know, maybe some kids got into the wrong thing, made an invocation and boom: havoc."

"Ah, no," the man replied stern. "The time it took to manifest was clear and steady, something outside put them there."

Dante flexed his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip and took a photo that seemed to be taken from the outside of a barrier. He looked at the walls used, determining what protections they'd built. On the side of the occasional wood, were inscriptions? Guess they can't fight superstition. That was a good thing in this case, the superstition was real. He was broadly informed on most entities that roved the old planes.

"They tried to keep themselves safe by building a fence covering the front of the place. Only the bravest among them leave the forest . . . they can't survive on that barren land too much longer."

Dante saw scarecrows in a broad panorama of clearing. All these years, they were still hateful things to look at. Nothing he couldn't handle.

The young man cleared his throat, "One more thing."

That got his attention.

"In one of my trips," he began, "I came across a something unlike the others. He was covered in black-plated armor that ran thin lines of blue. He didn't act aggressively, at least, I think it was a 'he.' The thing just . . . just stared at me— I thought it was going to steal my soul. The man was very tall, at least eight feet, I'd say. My blood ran cold as soon as I saw him, I just couldn't keep my focus."

Once Dante heard the description, he looked over his shoulder.

Something flickered in his mind, something old. The last time he saw something that looked so familiar, the amulet had fallen.

Could it be? is he alive?

Dante brushed the thoughts away.

"Can you say where . . ." he stopped mid-sentence the moment he saw the picture of a pentagram. Drowned with blood, it had been cut into the earth like a monolithic face. This pentagram was there that day, when his son had been snatched and a piece of his sanity stolen.

"Where was that taken?" he remarked steadily, voice low but gritty.

Mark stayed silent as he looked at him uneasy.

"Ah, uh— that one. Well, that was taken near a temple close to the village, a place people use in the past before it became, well, overrun."

A smirk broke across Dante's face. The first lead came. The first strike is always deadly. He'd show those beasts no mercy.

"I'll be there."

"Good- great, that's fantastic news for them," Mark said, enthusiastic, and he folded the photos together, cobbling them into his suit case again and he took a slow breath. That hot tea was still simmering beside him and he took the mug and drank away, downing the stuff nice and easy. It went over smooth despite the pungent leafy context and he smiled to himself satisfaction. He looked back the older fellow behind the desk and said, "Well, don't be late, they won't like it if you are. Tomorrow morning at noon is when they want you. That photo I let you keep has the address on the back. You'll want to get out of here by around seven-thirty flat if you want to beat the traffic. One more minute of that freak-show and they might just go ballistic, you know? Not sure how long we can keep those people from falling into panic."

"Find a way," Dante said flatly. "I got a bridge I'd like to sell 'em."

The man chuckled and waved goodbye. He left through the double door a moment later.

Patty stood beside him, hands behind her back and the innocent face beaming, "Dante? You wanna grab coffee tomorrow? Maybe we can try to watch a movie together."

He looked up at her with a raised eyebrow of pure cynism.

She smiled sweetly at him.

Dante turned forward and closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, "You just saw me get a contract— never mind. When you get to be twenty and you're still straight, maybe we'll have a chat."

He grumbled and smacked her shoulder like an older brother as he passed her back on the way to his room. He locked the door behind him and shut his weary eyes as he collapsed into bed. They burned as he laid there, awake and operating for so long that they'd grown used to the stagnant air of his old home. He groaned to himself and couldn't help but open his eyes again, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes as he looked around him again and noticed it on the nightstand.

Her journal laid next to him, open to the first page. He read it so many times by now.

Her death was never something he quite outgrew. That sense of emptiness that lingered within him, the last time he felt it was the night he lost his own brother. The slashed glove still there in his drawer, he would often take it out and remember those final words spoken to him, crystalized in amber. He picked up the book once again, wanting to place his palm and fingertips to the page, caress the words, feeling that on this page was a part of her very soul.

He started to read and remember.

* * *

_**Septemper 28 . . .** _

This was the worst day of my life. We were together dealing with our advisory when it happened.

The wind howled as rain battered the window in the dead of the night. The cracking sound of the thunder and from the dark clouds lightning struck the ground and woke me out of my daze.

"Come on . . . you're alive," I panicked as my hands were in the middle of his chest, doing compressions. I placed my ear there to listen, but still there was no sound of breathing.

I tilted his head and placed my hand on his forehead and my lips on his, then started blowing air inside.

Still no reaction.

I cradled his pale body in my arms, his injuries seemingly too great, trying to hold back my tears. I know it had only been a few hours but the lifetime I spent like that was torture.

I wasn't certain of all the feelings coursing through me, but I recognized panic, anguish, and . . . was it my heart dying?

The confusion consumed me to no end. Until he opened his eyes and stared at me as if nothing happened.

"Your lips taste nice, I must say," he chuckled. Just like I knew he would. "The most pleasant wake-up call, I could get used to this."

Typical of him to tease me like this.

I didn't visit him for a while after what happened.

I couldn't face him. I can't deny that . . . that we bonded closer than anyone else I've known. We gave each other something special. The comfort I felt with him after that damn tower was the only safe place I'd ever known, aside from my own mother's hug. I just wish I could heal what his father's done, fix that hole he's got inside. I know it bothers him just as much as it bothers me. Maybe through all the suffering, all the grief we've known, there's a way forward. Two beautifully depressed morons we are. Guess I can't tell myself no.

Why am I feeling like this?

* * *

That was the start of their doomed bond, the hunter and his wife. The walking Arsenal, Mary, or the name he had giving her, Lady.

Her crimson kiss still stuck on him like ink on parchment. How lonely.

* * *

**Why do you refuse to gain power? the power of our father Sparda . . .**

* * *

Vergil was right. He was just too stupid to see it.

* * *

To Be Continued

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Thank you guys for reading, this was a fun one :) This story actually belonged to someone else originally that I admired quite a bit and was sad they'd chosen not to finish it, so I thought if they weren't going to that I would lol, so I chose to take it and finish it myself here. Hope you dig it, more to come for sure.


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